I place my heart in the seat next to me on the intercity bus,
and we run together without looking to the side, without
asking how we are doing, early cosmos flowers sway by
the roadside, perhaps thinking this is how sides lean against
each other as they collide.
I read the rhythm of wiping across your thinning wrists,
you keep brushing your short bobbed hair behind your ears,
when the curve of your shoulders becomes not just modest
but skeletal, a warbler comes down to perch. I listen to all
the birds.
The courtyard gathers the sudden midsummer shower, and
in the corner, gentian resonates with its flower buds. What
shall we call the flower that blooms at the edge of a
yearning heart? In the end, it will either be picked up or
wither away.
Dust gathers on the empty desk. Things unseen but piled
high raise their hands. The window receives the sound of
rain in rhythm with a pulse. Slender streams of the drizzle
connect us.
Gukhui Noh is a Korean poet and author of her handbound poetry chapbook, moonbow (Soyuz, 2022). She explores narratives folded within the creases of time and place. Her work has received support from the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop, the Center for Cultural Innovation, and Seoul Art Foundation. Find her at windproofrudder.substack.com.
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